The Raccoon City Case Files
by TheLoneSurvivor
Summary: As RCPD detective John Robinson begins to unravel the conspiracy surrounding the events which took place at the Arklay Mountain Mansion, he soon discovers there are elements within his own department with their own agendas looking to silence the truth.
1. Another Long Day

Another Long Day

Another Long Day

Two months ago a series of violent, brutal, and particularly unusual murders had ripped Raccoon City from anonymity and thrust it into the media spotlight. It all started with a group of four hikers going missing in the foothills of the Arklay Mountain range. There were no indications of foul play, after all handfuls of people disappear into the American Wilderness every year.

A search was led by State Police, two of the searchers; a State Police Detective, and a seasoned Mountain Search and Rescue member had mysteriously went missing as well during the weeklong search. Eventually they cut their losses and pulled out, having found nothing. It wasn't until pieces of the missing persons started washing up on the Huron River (A tributary of the Au Sable river which runs almost the entire length of the Arklay Mountains) that the S.T.A.R.S. were called in.

S.T.A.R.S. (Special Tactics and Rescue Squad) was an elite branch-off of the federal Bureau of Investigation. They handled terrorist actions and threats, and specialized in rescue and reconnaissance; two areas which were not handled by the FBI's elite Hostage Rescue Team. They had set up a field office in the Raccoon City Police Department, and after a four man hunting party went missing; planned a tactical sweep of the northernmost area, where they would move south towards the city.

The thirteen man task force was split into two teams: Alpha and Bravo. Bravo would lead the initial reconnaissance of the area, and followed up by Alpha Team's arrival, they would both comb the foothills looking for the killers, and or survivors.

Less than an hour into the mission, Bravo Team's helicopter malfunctioned and radio contact was lost. Alpha Team was later sent in to recover Bravo Team. When the Alphas arrived they found the remains of Bravo's helicopter, along with their dead pilot; Kevin Dooley. Dooley was strapped into the helicopters pilot seat, having supposedly died on impact. It was minutes later that a transmission from Alpha's helicopter pilot; Brad Vickers, announced that Alpha Team had been attacked by more than a dozen wild dogs, and had been forced to retreat into the ruins of the abandoned Spencer Estate that was owned by the Umbrella Corporation.

From that point on, the story goes unknown. The mansion went up in flames, and the only survivors of Alpha Team were members Jill Valentine, Chris Redfield, Barry Burton, and Brad Vickers. Joseph Frost, and Captain Albert Wesker were killed in action, Their remains were never recovered. Rebecca Chambers was the sole survivor of Bravo Team. Captain Enrico Marini, Edward Dewey, Kenneth Sullivan, Forrest Speyer, Kevin Dooley and Richard Aiken were all presumed dead, yet again no remains were ever found.

After that, the Raccoon City S.T.A.R.S. Team was disbanded. They fired off accusations at the Umbrella Corporation, and about Captain Albert Wesker's treason. They were suspended on the spot. They were never heard from again, and had supposedly left town. All of them currently have warrants out for their arrest after not showing up for a federal court hearing.

Just like that, the cases were handed back to the Raccoon City Police Department. My division supervisor Marvin Branagh handed my partner Dan Scully, and myself; John Robinson, the southern district murder files: Ten manila folders packed with crime scene photos, witness reports, and information on the victims. Ten cases that were currently listed as "active".

I was just waking up in my apartment on the east side of Raccoon City, when I received a phone call from my partner Dan. Three more unidentified bodies had washed up on the bank of the Huron, three more folders, and three more stacks of paperwork.

My department issued black 96' Yukon barreled down M-23 toward the crime scene. I had turned on the strobes, and watched the red needle on the speedometer rise past 65 mph, There was really no rush, but the 15 minute drive was turning into a 30 minute one after I had stopped for a coffee and a breakfast sandwich at a local McDonalds to try and erase the damage done to my kidneys after a long night of drinking at O'Kelly's; a popular bar hangout for off-duty cops.

The number of black and whites parked at the crime scene, A medical examiners van, and the other Black Yukon which belonged to my Division Supervisor told me that something big was going down. I turned off the sirens and lights, and then drifted to an empty spot behind my partners Jeep. This was going to be another long day.


	2. A Piece Of The Puzzle

The summer of 1998 was to be my 7th year in the Raccoon City Police Department

The summer of 1998 was to be my 7th year in the Raccoon City Police Department. It Would have been 8 if my Marine Corp Reserve Unit (Hotel Company, 3rd Battalion, 4th Marines Military Police Officers) wasn't called into action to push the Iraqis out of Kuwait back in 91'. I worked the beat as a patrolmen for two years, breaking up domestic disputes, and writing speeding tickets to scared shitless High School kids.

In my 5 years as a Detective I've seen and investigated every major crime that any big city would have to deal with; extortion, bribery, misuse of public funds, breaking and entering, Drug related crimes, armed robbery, rape, and even murder.

Murder: "The crime of killing another person deliberately and not in self-defense or with any other extenuating circumstances recognized by law." They made us memorize that, among countless other definitions at the Police Academy.

The people who had gone missing in the mountains were certainly murdered, not killed. You kill in self defense, or in a war you KILL the enemy. Those people were slaughtered like cattle, and then eaten.

When the murders first started happening, the city allocated 100,000 to the department to field and train an S.W.A.T. Team. The fact that I had already passed the Detectives Exam, along with my 6 years on the force and 6 years in the Marine Corp Military Police Embassy Reaction Team landed me the job as Team Captain, and an additional fifteen grand a year.

I got to hand-pick the 10 man team, and train them extensively with the State Police S.W.A.T. Teams. Besides a few minor Drug Raids the team for the most part is inexperienced, but the thousands of rounds fired at the shooting range, the hundreds of doors kicked down in the "Kill House" at the State Police Training grounds, and hours of Physical training have hardened both their minds and bodies. I anxiously wait for the day when we find these killers, and end their reign of terror with a few well placed nine millimeter hollow points.

I stepped out of the cool air-conditioned confines of the Yukon and into a blast furnace. Even though it was only the beginning of September, the temperature topped out at just below 90 degrees Fahrenheit. It was the kind of summer heat that brings to mind ice cold cans of Coors Light, the whine of an air conditioner set to max, or the sizzling of meat over a charcoal grill.

Not technically being on duty meant I was dressed casual, wearing my Danner Jump Boots that I wore when I was on duty under a pair of blue jeans. Along with an extra large T-shirt, that just barely fit my heavily muscled frame that had RCPD SWAT stenciled in white block letters across the front above the emblem of the Raccoon City Police Department. My tanned leather shoulder holster held my Colt .45 S.W.A.T. issue that had a below the barrel mounted "stingray" flashlight. It sat below my left armpit for a right handed reach, and I had four ten round magazines under my right armpit strapped in individual pouches for a left hand reload.

The crime scene was in a fairly rural area outside of the city. The pungent smell of pine tree sap filled the air, along with the rank scent of manure from a cattle farm down the road. The road itself was paved with rocks and dirt instead of asphalt or concrete. Less than ten yards off the road the ground dropped off in a 45 degree slope down to where an opening shot out the treated waste water from the city into the small river which emptied into Higgins lake, the largest body of water at the base of the mountains.

Yellow crime scene tape sealed off most of the area, wrapping around the wall of pine trees that went along the road. Two county sheriffs and three R.P.D. black and whites sealed off the area. A small crowd of locals had gathered at the edge of the taped off area. There were no news vans around, so it seemed the press hadn't gotten a whiff of their soon to be shocking five o'clock news report.

I stepped under the barrier of crime scene tape, nodded to the two bored Officers who recognized me and let me in. Protocol dictated that I was to show them my badge and ID, and by waving I in they had indeed violated protocol. I myself, not really being a stickler to department protocol and rules did not let it bother me. I then walked over to the Medical Examiners van to find a familiar face holding the crime scene sign-in sheet.

Her name was Jessica Anderson. When the attacks were starting, I would drive out to the scene and since she worked with the Medical Examiners Office she would always be there, doing something or another. I didn't really get to know her well until a week ago when she walked into O'Kelly's Bar with some of her friends. We started talking. She was only twenty three, and I was a 29 year old divorced cop buried in his work. I never thought she would be interested.

Yet I was wrong, something I was rarely accused of. We shared three pitchers of beer the night before at O'Kelly's, then went back to her place (I'm fairly organized at work, but my small apartment on the west side of Raccoon; not so much). In our drunken stupor we stumbled up three flights of stairs, when we got to apartment 13, her place. Before the door was opened, we couldn't keep our hands off of each other.

From there an additional bottle of Bacardi 151 had erased any other recollection of that night. I had woken up early, and was off to another day downtown. I still had her number on my phone, and had actually called her to see if she wanted to head up to O'Kelly's last night. No answer, so the night was spent shooting pool and consuming wave after wave of Budweiser and Jack and Cokes.

She herself looked like she had not had a decent nights sleep. Her clothes were pressed, her dark brown hair was neatly wrapped in a bun but her tanned body was not as dark as it should have been. She looked pale, and had slight rings of sleep depravation under her eyes. Her slim athletic body was leaning against the M.E. van, and her shoulders were slouched. When she caught sight of me, she straightened up and returned my grin with a small smile.

"Looks like somebody's late?" She said jokingly and handed me the clipboard.

"As usual." I said. Wrote down my name: John Robinson, date: September 9th, time of entry: 0935, and then signed just below my name.

"What happened to that phone call?" She said sounding kind of annoyed, and shot me a stare.

"Actually-"

"Actually? Actually I got it on my answering machine. I was about to call you, but I got called in for the night shift. Now here I am, should have been home and in bed an hour ago…"

"What a coincidence, I woke up an hour ago!" I said, not too seriously and got a grin out of her.

"Well I better let you get to work… Call me; we can head up to O'Kelly's or something?"

"Will do."

I walked down the hill trying not to stumble over the rough terrain and looked through the frenzy of state cops and found who I was looking for; my partner Dan Scully and my Division Supervisor Marvin Branagh. I spotted the short Latino with his shaved head and the tall African American talking with another County Medical Examiner.

My partner was Dan Scully. Dan had been with the department since 89' and was the partner I was assigned right after I got out of the academy back in 91'. He lifted weights religiously just like myself but he topped in at 180, but every single pound was lean muscle. In his spare time Dan boxed, and watching him chase down and apprehends a perp was like Friday night at the fights. A right hook followed by a shot to the solar plexus was more than enough to down a man twice his size. He was only half Mexican, but he still had that stereotypical Latino charisma. He was quick with his mouth, but could always back up his words.

Marvin Branagh was my Division Supervisor. He was a 22 year veteran, 13 of those twenty years having been served with the Michigan State Police as a Detective. He transferred to Raccoon a year before I did, probably looking to settle down in a nice quiet city where there would be a few breaking and entering cases, and maybe a murder or two a year. He was two inches taller than me standing in at 6'5, and being 41 years old still was fit enough to occasionally drop in and do PT with the S.W.A.T. team whenever we would commandeer the departments fitness facilities. He was one of my first choices to be a team leader, but he was just looking to ride out his last 8 years in the department and enjoy his pension.

Dan glanced over and noticed me walking towards their powwow.

"Hey took you long enough!"

"Today was my day off dickhead."

"Another late night with that cutie from the ME office?"

"Nah, your sister stopped by."

"Better my sister than my mom, though my moms not bad…or so I hear."

"God I hope so."

"Alright gentlemen..." Marvin spoke up, and turned his attention to me. "Alright John. We got three stiffs. Some joggers ran by at 0600 and smelt them, and called up the "Stateys". They were on the scene at 0630 and set up a perimeter. Medical examiners arrived at 0700; we got the call and were here a half hour later.

"So who's was on the menu today?" I asked, knowing that the answer would only raise more questions.

"We don't know yet. Let's go find out shall we?" Marvin said and passed me a facemask. Not really a mask, but something that a carpenter would wear when working in a high dust environment. We wore them whenever we had to examine a scene were the deceased were…ripe.

"Not too fresh?" Marvin shook his head and we headed down the bank of the creek towards a sewer drainage pipe, where CSI's from the state police were snapping photos of the crime scene.

As we got closer, the smell of rotting flesh permeated the thin cotton mask which wrapped around my mouth and nostrils. I felt the breakfast sandwich and coffee from my stomach fighting its way up my esophagus and quickly readjusted the mask.

There were three corpses in all. Their bodies were awkwardly splayed in rigor mortis. The knee deep water of the creek that surrounded them ran red with blood.

They all wore the same outfits; charcoal gray combat fatigues under level IV body armor; their faces were hidden by black gas masks, and they wore Kevlar helmets which were still strapped to their heads. One of them clutched an H&K MP-5 in his swollen hand, there was no magazine inserted in the weapon. It was clear they had been there for a week, maybe more, as their bodies were swollen and their skin wrinkled and porous with water.

The one with the MP-5 was the most intact. Though there were two jagged holes on his chest by something that was big as a softball had pierced the body armor and tunneled all the way through. The left lens on his gasmask was shattered, but there was nothing but blood and gore where his eye should have been.

The second was completely bisected, only the torso, left arm, and head remained. The left forearm was bent at a right angle, broken. There was no indication at the scene where the other half of his body was.

The third lay face down in the ankle deep water of the creek. The Kevlar vest he wore was ripped to shreds. His spinal cord was clearly visible through the bloody mulch of what was his lower back. Maggots crawled in and out of the mess.

Dan said aloud what we were all thinking, his voice muffled by the mask he wore.

"What the fuck?"

I snapped on the latex gloves and went for a closer look.

It was then a huge puzzle piece fell into my lap. The corpse with the MP-5 had an emblem stenciled onto his uniform right above his right bicep. Though it was crusted with the dark rust color of blood, the white of the logo could clearly be distinguished from the darker red portion. It was a hexagon; the inside divided with alternating red and white triangles. Below the words USS were stenciled on.

It was the symbol of the most powerful pharmaceutical company in the world, the backbone of Raccoon City. The logo of the Umbrella Corporation.

--

Thanks for taking the time to read. Please review! Nothing gets chapters done quicker than a few compliments or constructive criticism from the people who enjoy (or don't for that matter) my work.


	3. Chapter 3

The summer of 1998 was to be my 7th year in the Raccoon City Police Department

The summer of 1998 was to be my 7th year in the Raccoon City Police Department. It Would have been 8 if my Marine Corp Reserve Unit (Hotel Company, 3rd Battalion, 4th Marines Military Police Officers) wasn't called into action to push the Iraqis out of Kuwait back in 91'. I worked the beat as a patrolmen for two years, breaking up domestic disputes, and writing speeding tickets to scared shitless High School kids.

In my 5 years as a Detective I've seen and investigated every major crime that any big city would have to deal with; extortion, bribery, misuse of public funds, breaking and entering, Drug related crimes, armed robbery, rape, and even murder.

Murder: "The crime of killing another person deliberately and not in self-defense or with any other extenuating circumstances recognized by law." They made us memorize that, among countless other definitions at the Police Academy.

The people who had gone missing in the mountains were certainly murdered, not killed. You kill in self defense, or in a war you KILL the enemy. Those people were slaughtered like cattle, and then eaten.

When the murders first started happening, the city allocated 100,000 to the department to field and train an S.W.A.T. Team. The fact that I had already passed the Detectives Exam, along with my 6 years on the force and 6 years in the Marine Corp Military Police Embassy Reaction Team landed me the job as Team Captain, and an additional fifteen grand a year.

I got to hand-pick the 10 man team, and train them extensively with the State Police S.W.A.T. Teams. Besides a few minor Drug Raids the team for the most part is inexperienced, but the thousands of rounds fired at the shooting range, the hundreds of doors kicked down in the "Kill House" at the State Police Training grounds, and hours of Physical training have hardened both their minds and bodies. I anxiously wait for the day when we find these killers, and end their reign of terror with a few well placed nine millimeter hollow points.

I stepped out of the cool air-conditioned confines of the Yukon and into a blast furnace. Even though it was only the beginning of September, the temperature topped out at just below 90 degrees Fahrenheit. It was the kind of summer heat that brings to mind ice cold cans of Coors Light, the whine of an air conditioner set to max, or the sizzling of meat over a charcoal grill.

Not technically being on duty meant I was dressed casual, wearing my Danner Jump Boots that I wore when I was on duty under a pair of blue jeans. Along with an extra large T-shirt, that just barely fit my heavily muscled frame that had RCPD SWAT stenciled in white block letters across the front above the emblem of the Raccoon City Police Department. My tanned leather shoulder holster held my Colt .45 S.W.A.T. issue that had a below the barrel mounted "stingray" flashlight. It sat below my left armpit for a right handed reach, and I had four ten round magazines under my right armpit strapped in individual pouches for a left hand reload.

The crime scene was in a fairly rural area outside of the city. The pungent smell of pine tree sap filled the air, along with the rank scent of manure from a cattle farm down the road. The road itself was paved with rocks and dirt instead of asphalt or concrete. Less than ten yards off the road the ground dropped off in a 45 degree slope down to where an opening shot out the treated waste water from the city into the small river which emptied into Higgins lake, the largest body of water at the base of the mountains.

Yellow crime scene tape sealed off most of the area, wrapping around the wall of pine trees that went along the road. Two county sheriffs and three R.P.D. black and whites sealed off the area. A small crowd of locals had gathered at the edge of the taped off area. There were no news vans around, so it seemed the press hadn't gotten a whiff of their soon to be shocking five o'clock news report.

I stepped under the barrier of crime scene tape, nodded to the two bored Officers who recognized me and let me in. Protocol dictated that I was to show them my badge and ID, and by waving I in they had indeed violated protocol. I myself, not really being a stickler to department protocol and rules did not let it bother me. I then walked over to the Medical Examiners van to find a familiar face holding the crime scene sign-in sheet.

Her name was Jessica Anderson. When the attacks were starting, I would drive out to the scene and since she worked with the Medical Examiners Office she would always be there, doing something or another. I didn't really get to know her well until a week ago when she walked into O'Kelly's Bar with some of her friends. We started talking. She was only twenty three, and I was a 29 year old divorced cop buried in his work. I never thought she would be interested.

Yet I was wrong, something I was rarely accused of. We shared three pitchers of beer the night before at O'Kelly's, then went back to her place (I'm fairly organized at work, but my small apartment on the west side of Raccoon; not so much). In our drunken stupor we stumbled up three flights of stairs, when we got to apartment 13, her place. Before the door was opened, we couldn't keep our hands off of each other.

From there an additional bottle of Bacardi 151 had erased any other recollection of that night. I had woken up early, and was off to another day downtown. I still had her number on my phone, and had actually called her to see if she wanted to head up to O'Kelly's last night. No answer, so the night was spent shooting pool and consuming wave after wave of Budweiser and Jack and Cokes.

She herself looked like she had not had a decent nights sleep. Her clothes were pressed, her dark brown hair was neatly wrapped in a bun but her tanned body was not as dark as it should have been. She looked pale, and had slight rings of sleep depravation under her eyes. Her slim athletic body was leaning against the M.E. van, and her shoulders were slouched. When she caught sight of me, she straightened up and returned my grin with a small smile.

"Looks like somebody's late?" She said jokingly and handed me the clipboard.

"As usual." I said. Wrote down my name: John Robinson, date: September 9th, time of entry: 0935, and then signed just below my name.

"What happened to that phone call?" She said sounding kind of annoyed, and shot me a stare.

"Actually-"

"Actually? Actually I got it on my answering machine. I was about to call you, but I got called in for the night shift. Now here I am, should have been home and in bed an hour ago…"

"What a coincidence, I woke up an hour ago!" I said, not too seriously and got a grin out of her.

"Well I better let you get to work… Call me; we can head up to O'Kelly's or something?"

"Will do."

I walked down the hill trying not to stumble over the rough terrain and looked through the frenzy of state cops and found who I was looking for; my partner Dan Scully and my Division Supervisor Marvin Branagh. I spotted the short Latino with his shaved head and the tall African American talking with another County Medical Examiner.

My partner was Dan Scully. Dan had been with the department since 89' and was the partner I was assigned right after I got out of the academy back in 91'. He lifted weights religiously just like myself but he topped in at 180, but every single pound was lean muscle. In his spare time Dan boxed, and watching him chase down and apprehends a perp was like Friday night at the fights. A right hook followed by a shot to the solar plexus was more than enough to down a man twice his size. He was only half Mexican, but he still had that stereotypical Latino charisma. He was quick with his mouth, but could always back up his words.

Marvin Branagh was my Division Supervisor. He was a 22 year veteran, 13 of those twenty years having been served with the Michigan State Police as a Detective. He transferred to Raccoon a year before I did, probably looking to settle down in a nice quiet city where there would be a few breaking and entering cases, and maybe a murder or two a year. He was two inches taller than me standing in at 6'5, and being 41 years old still was fit enough to occasionally drop in and do PT with the S.W.A.T. team whenever we would commandeer the departments fitness facilities. He was one of my first choices to be a team leader, but he was just looking to ride out his last 8 years in the department and enjoy his pension.

Dan glanced over and noticed me walking towards their powwow.

"Hey took you long enough!"

"Today was my day off dickhead."

"Another late night with that cutie from the ME office?"

"Nah, your sister stopped by."

"Better my sister than my mom, though my moms not bad…or so I hear."

"God I hope so."

"Alright gentlemen..." Marvin spoke up, and turned his attention to me. "Alright John. We got three stiffs. Some joggers ran by at 0600 and smelt them, and called up the "Stateys". They were on the scene at 0630 and set up a perimeter. Medical examiners arrived at 0700; we got the call and were here a half hour later.

"So who's was on the menu today?" I asked, knowing that the answer would only raise more questions.

"We don't know yet. Let's go find out shall we?" Marvin said and passed me a facemask. Not really a mask, but something that a carpenter would wear when working in a high dust environment. We wore them whenever we had to examine a scene were the deceased were…ripe.

"Not too fresh?" Marvin shook his head and we headed down the bank of the creek towards a sewer drainage pipe, where CSI's from the state police were snapping photos of the crime scene.

As we got closer, the smell of rotting flesh permeated the thin cotton mask which wrapped around my mouth and nostrils. I felt the breakfast sandwich and coffee from my stomach fighting its way up my esophagus and quickly readjusted the mask.

There were three corpses in all. Their bodies were awkwardly splayed in rigor mortis. The knee deep water of the creek that surrounded them ran red with blood.

They all wore the same outfits; charcoal gray combat fatigues under level IV body armor; their faces were hidden by black gas masks, and they wore Kevlar helmets which were still strapped to their heads. One of them clutched an H&K MP-5 in his swollen hand, there was no magazine inserted in the weapon. It was clear they had been there for a week, maybe more, as their bodies were swollen and their skin wrinkled and porous with water.

The one with the MP-5 was the most intact. Though there were two jagged holes on his chest by something that was big as a softball had pierced the body armor and tunneled all the way through. The left lens on his gasmask was shattered, but there was nothing but blood and gore where his eye should have been.

The second was completely bisected, only the torso, left arm, and head remained. The left forearm was bent at a right angle, broken. There was no indication at the scene where the other half of his body was.

The third lay face down in the ankle deep water of the creek. The Kevlar vest he wore was ripped to shreds. His spinal cord was clearly visible through the bloody mulch of what was his lower back. Maggots crawled in and out of the mess.

Dan said aloud what we were all thinking, his voice muffled by the mask he wore.

"What the fuck?"

I snapped on the latex gloves and went for a closer look.

It was then a huge puzzle piece fell into my lap. The corpse with the MP-5 had an emblem stenciled onto his uniform right above his right bicep. Though it was crusted with the dark rust color of blood, the white of the logo could clearly be distinguished from the darker red portion. It was a hexagon; the inside divided with alternating red and white triangles. Below the words USS were stenciled on.

It was the symbol of the most powerful pharmaceutical company in the world, the backbone of Raccoon City. The logo of the Umbrella Corporation.

--

Thanks for taking the time to read. Please review! Nothing gets chapters done quicker than a few compliments or constructive criticism from the people who enjoy (or don't for that matter) my work.


End file.
